


the devil tips his hat to me

by aortic



Series: human alastor fics [1]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: 1930s, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Gen, Horror, Human!Alastor, Original Character Death(s), Pre-Canon, Serial Killers, alastor is in hell for a reason, plot inspired by a short story i probably shouldn't have read when i was 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-03-20 12:49:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18992989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aortic/pseuds/aortic
Summary: His lips cracked into a delightful grin as she writhed beneath his grip, face paling as he whispered, “Oh, my dear… you cannot begin to fathom how happy you’ve made me. I haven’t been this entertained in months.”





	the devil tips his hat to me

**Author's Note:**

> quick note!
> 
> so, as both the tags and archive warnings state, this particular fic is rather entrenched in some not-so-light material. if you’re sensitive to any of the aforementioned topics, i highly suggest you proceed with caution. reader discretion is advised.
> 
> essentially: writing alastor is really fun, but it's also really fucking bizarre considering how ecstatic yet somehow completely nonchalant he is about… well, everything. you’ll see what i mean.

She was not his first.

The thought occurred to her when she woke among the mud of some desolate swamp, fingers caked in the earthy sludge of the terrain; wrists and ankles bound by rope and voice muffled by the fabric shoved down her throat. He stood before her with an exuberant grin across his face, lips curled to reveal a glimmering set of ivory teeth.

 _That smile_. Her stomach lurched at the sight. How she wished to reverse the sands of time — to do way with their acquaintanceship entirely. _But alas_ , she thought, she could not alter previous events and she could not recant their seemingly pleasant introduction.

 _He had been so charming_. Well-mannered and jubilant, she thought him the ideal suitor upon their first encounter. She found his cheerful disposition to be quite endearing — inspiring even, how he managed to remain so optimistic amidst such wretched times.

Only now had the reason for his glee truly occurred to her… Alastor relished in others’ turmoil.

“You’re awake,” he noted with a _clap_ that echoed through the entirety of the swamp. “Splendid! Well, then let’s get right to it, shall we?” Alastor plucked a knife from the interior of his blazer and gripped its handle firmly in hand. “You and I,” he said, “Are going to play a game. It’s quite simple — much like hide and seek.”

Defined by an uncanny flair for the dramatic, he paused for narrative effect, twirling the knife between his hands. “Once I free you of your restraints, you will be free to run as far as your legs can manage.” A faint chuckle escaped his lips. “And since I am a rather gracious host, I’m _even_ going to give you a ten-minute head start!”

Alastor bent to her level, cautious as to not dirty his pristine suit on the way. “I enjoy the hunt, you see…” Knife in hand, he wriggled its blade beneath the rope at her wrists to sever their restraints. “Always have. And humans, well… Humans are the most fascinating of all.” He paused. “Do you know the one thing that sets man apart from animal?”

A violent cough sputtered past her lips as he removed the makeshift gag from her mouth. His brows furrowed, wondering if she were foolish enough to scream once she managed to still her ragged breaths.

Much to his surprise, however, she merely spat, “Empathy.”

With a faint chuckle and bemused shake of his head, Alastor sighed, “ _Hardly_. No… no, it’s reason, you see. Man’s intelligence is far superior to that of any deer or wild hog. No animal can contend with the logic of man. And _that_ —” he paused to give a complementary snap of his fingers, “is precisely what makes you such a thrilling hunt. Humans pose more of a _challenge_.”

“So, run along now,” he said, as he freed her of the restraints which previously bound her ankles together. “But be it noted, my dear, that there is no man alive who knows these lands better than I.”

A joyous grin permeated his lips as he plucked an antique watch from his coat, eyeing its ivory face with a scrutinous glance. _Ten minutes_ , he thought; eyes gleaming in anticipation. _Then the fun will truly begin_.

* * *

The woman cursed as she tumbled over a stray root. She lurched forward as her foot slipped under the terraneous hilt, twisting her ankle as she toppled to the ground.

“Dammit!” she hissed, wincing as she scrambled to her feet like some wounded animal. Stride slowed by her throbbing ankle, she proceeded to run onward, teeth gnashed to assuage the pain which crippled her so.

Only when raucous coughs began to strain her lungs did she halt, resting momentarily beside a massive tree to quell her shallow breaths. Matted strands of golden hair shielded her vision as she doubled over, shoulders heaving as her heart drilled furiously against the cavity of her chest.

But, past the blonde cascades was she able to able to observe the path from whence she came. Her eyes widened as she noted the indents of the mud, their size, and proximity.

Footprints. She had left footprints.

Her lower lip quivered at such a sickening realisation: in her own desperate attempt to flee her captor, she had unwittingly led him to her precise location. She would never free herself of Alastor’s gaze, not when her every motion played to his advantage.

 _I’m dead_ , she thought as the tears which welled in her eyes threatened to spill down her tattered cheeks. _I’m dead._

Futile though it was, the woman sprinted onward, exasperated muscles and sprained ankle protesting with every frantic step she took. If she were to die, she figured, she would die with her dignity intact.

She would not relent — would not _bow_ to her fate. No, if Alastor meant to strip the young woman of her life, he would have to pry it from her very hands.

She only wished she were better acquainted with the land.

* * *

Hunting rifle slung over his shoulders, Alastor strolled about at a casual pace, whistling as he stalked the woman’s tracks. Soon, he would reach his desired location: a sort of hill that provided an excellent view of the otherwise flat terrain of the swamp.

Alastor smirked. Somehow, they never anticipated the initial bullet — as if they doubted the range at which he could accurately shoot. _Humans were peculiar creatures._

He ascended the hill with vigorous footing, eager to instigate the climax of their little game. He leant over its edge and assumed the prone position — stretched onto the ground, rifle firmly planted in front.

 _Now to wait_.

To Alastor, there was no honour in hunting for mere sport. He deemed such an act to be wasteful — irresponsible, even — both of which were qualities of great abhorrence.

He learned the ethics of hunting from his late father. _“You must be sure to make use of every part of the animal,”_ he had advised with a stern gaze. _“Otherwise, it’s just senseless murder.”_

Of course, Alastor’s father never anticipated his son would so thrive upon the thrill of the hunt — that he would take great pleasure in stilling the heart of a living creature; in knowing it was _he_ who reigned dominant.

His father certainly never imagined this same bloodlust — this same _appetite_ — would far pervade the boundaries of ordinary game. Human or animal, all were hunted… _all were devoured_.

The woman entered his line of vision within twenty minutes’ time. Her breathing was hoarse, shallow, as though she were choking on every bout of oxygen she inhaled, and audible from his elevated perch. Alastor chuckled in response. _They never learn to be quiet, do they?_ he thought with a joyous squeeze of the trigger.

A maniacal grin spread across his lips, threatening to split his face in half as the woman collapsed; her screams of agony like music to his ears. With a trembling grip, she pressed a hand to the gaping wound at her side, groaning at her inability to stifle the blood which oozed from the cracks between her fingertips.

 _But then_ , noted Alastor with a twisted intrigue, the woman chose to react in the most _unfathomable_ manner; she began to crawl.

It was a truly pathetic sight, Alastor thought, how in her injured state she had only one leg and arm to propel her body through the sludge of the bayou. Amused though he was, he also found it somewhat impressive — how she refused to relent in even the most catastrophic of events.

Alastor chuckled as he rose from the ground, rifle slung over his shoulders once more. He descended the hill at a lingering pace, stray twigs snapping beneath his boots to alert the woman of his presence. He smirked at the expression upon her face — eyes absurdly wide, chapped lips quivering in horror. Little could compete with the satisfaction of such a sight, he thought. There was nothing so _pleasurable_ as that final expression of terror.

“Well, it’s been a joy, my dear…” said Alastor as he knelt before his latest prize, obstructing her path of refuge. “But I’m afraid all good things must come to an end.”

His eyes lowered to the wound at her side and the blood which coated her fingers. “You’ll surely bleed out at this rate, anyhow,” he noted with the slight curve of his lips, suppressing the desire to wash his own fingers with the crimson substance.

“ _Go to hell_ ,” the woman spat through clenched teeth. Futile of an act as she knew it to be, she clawed at her assailant’s ankles, raking her nails into any bit of skin she could manage.

But Alastor, never one to be daunted by another’s attack, simply seized the woman by her throat, lifting her body with ease as he slowly rose from the ground.

His lips cracked into a delightful grin as she writhed beneath his grip, face paling as he whispered, “Oh, my dear… you cannot begin to fathom how happy you’ve made me. I haven’t been this entertained in _months_.”

He freed the woman from his grasp and cast her aside as though she were some weightless doll, eyes fixated upon the blood which flowed freely from her now-unguarded gash. Arms at her side, twitching with the impact of her fall, she could only groan in response.

Vision fleeting, her eyes traced the outline of his rifle, slung casually over his shoulder as if to mock her agonised state.

“Please…” she implored in a gravelled tone, wheezing with every word that tumbled past her lips. “ _Just kill me_.”

 _Ah_ , thought Alastor with a faint chuckle. _There it is._ The plea for death was one that always shrouded him in pride, as it was one he attested to his own strength — his own _wit_ — and ability to erode that _pesky thing_ called human morale. There was no greater accomplishment, as far as he was concerned, than to strip someone of their innate will to live — to reduce the relentless to nothing more than a pathetic insect, begging that he absolve them of their misery.

Only Alastor was not so kind as to heed their dying wish. There was no gratification in an instant death; no joy on his part. A simple bullet to the skull was nothing compared to his preferred method.

He lowered the rifle to his side and encased its body in his hands, barrel pointed to the sky and stock to the woman.

But even in her near-unconscious state did she manage to note the dried blood along the metal plate that lingered above, indicating the rifle’s use not as a mere firearm, but a blunt weapon designed to crush and disfigure.

“N-no… please,” the woman begged, voice garbled by the blood which spewed from her lips. “Just… just…” she continued, though to no avail, as the downward swing of his rifle consumed her fruitless pleas. Nose and teeth cracking beneath the weight of the strike, she could no longer muster the strength to weep, as even the trauma of her own injuries forced blood to bubble from her mouth and nostrils. She could do nothing but lie and await the final strike, for Alastor would swing _and swing_ until she was no more; skull fragmented and face bludgeoned to an unrecognisable mass of muscle and bone.

He wiped a bit of splattered blood from his face onto the pad of his thumb, sighing contently as he brought the iron taste to his tongue; eyes glued to the woman’s mangled corpse. Once the epitome of ethereal beauty, her face retained little of its original anatomy — blood pooled from the stock-shaped crater that consumed her skull, seeping into the dirt and coating the floor in a sort of crimson sludge. What flesh remained frayed along the edges of the gash, peeling to reveal the layers of subcutaneous skin which lurked below.

Alastor could hardly suppress the urge to laugh. In all their pride, humans were undeniably foolish creatures, so convinced of their own durability that he found great humour in their demise. They spoke of death as though it were some near-inconceivable feat — a tragedy from which all were immune. And yet, despite the logic and intelligence they possessed, humans were as effortless to kill as they were to manipulate. It was all but mere child’s play to Alastor — a game in its most grotesque form.

And so, with a pleasant tune in his head and a joyous bounce in his stride, Alastor took the woman’s hand in his own and proceeded to drag her corpse to a nearby shed for dismemberment. Once properly situated within the shed’s interior, he retrieved the desired tool, a saw of absurdly magnanimous proportions, and promptly began to carve through flesh and bone. He hummed as he separated her limbs into orderly chunks of meat; blood coating his hands in a slick red varnish.

The viable slabs were then flayed, a process which Alastor came to master courtesy of his father’s guidance. He pondered the subject of his father as he continued to strip reddened meat of needless skin. Would the man who so openly boasted of his hunting prowess take pride in knowing his son mastered the most elusive game of all? Or would his conscience be so plagued with the reality of the matter: that _his_ lessons were twisted and applied to an act as heinous as preying upon one’s own species?

Stern though he was, Alastor saw his father no differently than he did anyone else — frail, inferior, with an opinion of limited relevance.

He peeled the remaining sliver of skin from the woman’s bicep.

 _The man is dead, anyhow_ , thought Alastor, and such things were of little significance — _humans_ were of little significance. Their only use lied within their occasional ability to aid his own agenda; to serve as a metaphorical staircase of which he could ascend.

With a faint chuckle, he allowed his gaze to linger over his latest prize a moment longer. There was a part of him, however small, that wished he could somehow immortalise his victims rather than consume all evidence, like the trophies with which many adorned their shelves.

But alas, such things were not practical, not if he wished to remain in his anonymous state. Notoriety, tempting of a thought as it was, meant imprisonment — perhaps even death, and such things would only hinder his beloved hunt. No, instead he would bear the pride of his accomplishments in secrecy and bask in his ability to operate undetected; hiding plainly before the world’s eyes. After all, no one would dare take some local radio host as a monster. He was far too charming; far too _benevolent_ to ever be suspected of such heinous crimes.

How ironic, Alastor thought, that the very characteristic which allowed him to bewitch and eviscerate _some_ ultimately convinced _others_ of his innocence. He would evade suspicion for as long as his heart drummed inside his chest, forever guiding his cyclical wheel of violence.  

A smug grin permeated his lips. She was not the first victim he had claimed, and Alastor knew, as he wedged a slice of her flesh between his teeth — a sample of the meal to come — that she would _not_ be his last.

**Author's Note:**

> i don’t know a thing about hunting or gun anatomy, so writing this forced me to learn a thing or two. it also completely fucked my search history, but hey, i strive for accuracy.
> 
> anyway, so this fic was heavily inspired by a short story i read as a child, richard connell’s “the most dangerous game.” it’s literally about a man who hunts other humans for sport because he thinks they’re more entertaining than animals… so, yeah, the premise of the whole thing pretty much screams alastor.
> 
> title is a line from the aurelio voltaire song “when you’re evil,” which i’d recommend. it’s a great way to get into the mood if you’re looking to write about generally terrible characters. it’s also just straight-up catchy.


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